20160506

I went out for late-night coffee and burgers with some friends for the first time in ages the other night, and there's something beautiful about the perfect nothingness that comes with just killing time in a nearly abandoned 24-hour diner. It's something you forget about most of the time: the levity of simply being.

There's something comforting about that, you know?

We walked home through the streets, mostly just taking it all in--the cool spring air, the stillness of the city, the beauty of being silent with people you love. That silence we shared was sacred, and I think we all sensed it.

By the end of the night it was just me and a girl who's been having a rough time of it lately. And we had that shared moment, that "this is the end of the night" where our eyes met, and I almost thought of breaking the silence, of trying to find something to say that could make everything okay, but that something doesn't exist.

So we stood in silence for a moment, then I smiled, gave her a thumbs up, and headed off home. It doesn't make everything better, but it's not nothing, right?

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The thing about dreams is they're hard to remember. Even when you remember them you're not really remembering them, you're translating some thoughts and images into a narrative that seems like it makes sense. That's why you forget them if you don't write it down right away. It's like how you remember things that happened when you're drunk better when you're drunk, sober when you're sober, sad when you're sad. Your brain has to translate the information into your state of mind.

Sometimes it's a nightmare out there, like the entire universe is trying to tell you something but you can't make it out, because you're not actually dreaming. But we have to put it in some kind of order that makes some kind of sense, or like every other dream it will just slip away.